"Ah, my friend, were you then that incautious explorer? I dwelt in the catacombs in those days with my band; and the emissaries of Rome, before venturing into them, generally made their wills, if prudent. The woman who blew out your light, and who afterwards showed you so much kindness was my Alba, who died a short time since from grief on account of my sufferings and imprisonment."
"Oh!" exclaimed the antiquary, "was it you who sat at the head of the table, and received as much homage from your men as if you had been in reality a sovereign?"
"Yes, it was I," replied the bandit, somewhat mournfully, noting Emilio's surprise; "years and the irons and cruelties of those wretched men calling themselves ministers of God have wrinkled my forehead and silvered these hairs. But my conscience is pure. I have treated every unhappy creature kindly, and you know whether you received any harm from us, or if even a hair of your head were touched. I wished only to humiliate those proud voluptuaries who live in luxury and vice at the expense of suffering humanity; and with God's help and yours, although I am old, I yet hope to see my country freed from their monstrous yoke."
"Yes," answered the antiquary affectionately, "I received the greatest kindness from you and your lady. I shall never forget it as long as I live."
And then turning to the company, he continued his recital:
"I was much shaken by my solitary exploration, and a little, too, by my unexpected encounter; and was so feverish inconsequence, that I was compelled to remain two days in the subterranean abode; and during that time I received, as you have heard, the greatest care and the most delicate attentions from the amiable Alba, who not only provided me with every necessary, but watched assiduously by my pillow. Having regained my strength at the end of the two days, I requested to be allowed to depart, and was conducted by a new and shorter road into the light of the sun, which I had thought never to see again. Upon giving my word of honor not to betray the secret of their existence, two of the band pointed out the road to Rome, and left me to pursue my way."
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ROMAN ARMY
"Now opens before us," says the great writer on ancient Italy, "that splendid region in which man grew to grander stature than in any other part of the world, and displayed prodigies of energy and moral judgment. We are about to enter that land consecrated by heroic virtues, from which came a light of empire that illumined the universe. To that proud life has since succeeded deep death; and now in many places of ancient majesty you will find nought but ruins—monuments of departed grandeur amidst vast deserts of death—dreary solitude, and the decayed achievements of man. The city of the rulers of the world fell, but the remains of her past glories can not be destroyed. They have for ages sent, and still send forth a mighty voice, which breaks the silence of her grave, proclaiming the greatness of those ancient inhabitants. The country of the Latins is desolate, but grand in its desolation; an austere nature adds solemnity to the vacant sites of the cities, their sepulchres, and relics. In the midst of a wilderness, at every step, one meets with tokens of a bygone power that overawes the imagination. Frequently, in the same spot, on the same stone, the traveller reads the record of the joys and the sorrows of generations divided by prodigious intervals of time. Here, also, are to be seen the columns of those temples in which the priests of old, with their auguries and idols, deceived the people, and reduced them to moral slavery.
"In this, however, little is changed; for farther on may be viewed modern temples, in which religion is still made an instrument of infamous tyranny. Sadnesses ancient and sadnesses modern blend together; memories of past dominations, and tokens of dominations ruling down to the present day.